


Whiskey Burn

by bluerosebouquet



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Drinking, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sad Steve is Sad, both a 2012 and post endgame fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 07:33:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18774118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluerosebouquet/pseuds/bluerosebouquet
Summary: Steve doesn't usually like to drink.





	Whiskey Burn

Steve didn’t like to drink.  Generally, it made him feel foggy, disoriented, unlike himself.  

He had heard once, from Tony, that being drunk made him funny and fun and removed the “stick up his ass.”But those occasions were few and far between, generally after a successful mission, a celebration of some kind.  Those were the nights were they would order takeout, after the people in fancy suits and dresses had left, and they would sit around the sunken living room, the glittering New York skyline at their backs and they would just...talk.

Even after they left Avengers tower and moved to the compound in upstate New York, they would regularly eat dinner as a family.  Tony would waltz in with ten pizzas from the city and would slam them down on the table, calling down the hall, “kids!  Dinner!”  Whoever was home for the time would gather in the media room (Tony insisted on a formal living room for entertaining guests, which meant that it was never used) and would play video games on the TV, eat, laugh, drink, the works.  Steve always loved it when Tony would come to the compound, he always brought in a breath of air that Steve didn’t realize he had been longing for.

Steve almost never drank outside of these gatherings, and he certainly never drank when he was feeling sad.  Not, at least, until Tony had snapped his fingers and saved the world at the cost of his own life.  Steve had found a pristine bottle of Tony’s scotch in the rubble of the ruined compound, and had taken that as a sign that he needed a drink.  Really, really bad.

Tony had told him once that drinking alone was the highest form of self care.  He had been joking, but Steve decided to try it anyway.  He waited until everyone had left the facility for the night.  He had insisted on staying, in case there were any stragglers of Thanos’ army that hadn’t been turned to dust.  Bucky and Sam had tried to stay with him, but Steve had insisted that they go stay at the hotel nearby that most everyone else was staying in.  They had gone, reluctantly, maybe seeing that he was in desperate need of a minute to just breathe, without anyone else there to witness it.

He sat in the glowing florescent light of the underground barracks that had remained intact after the battle, staring at the golden colored liquid inside the bottle in his hands.  His hands shook a little as he pulled off the wax sealing the bottle and took a swig.  It burned and made him cough, but the heat that settled in his chest seemed to ease the knot of grief that was twisting like poisonous vines around his heart.

He remembered once, he thought it must have been Natasha’s birthday, they were sitting around, sprawled out on the floor and the couches and chairs, a fire crackling in the fancy fireplace, and Tony stood up, a tad unsteady on his feet and had proposed a drinking game.  Steve had agreed enthusiastically, and the rest of the group had been almost astounded, but he had already had three shots of Thor’s space liquor and was feeling much, much less reserved than normal.

“Fuck yeah, Cap”, Tony had said, and he had, without further ado, grabbed two beat-up Gamecube controllers and had said, “Whoever loses at Smash takes a shot.”

It had turned into an almost all-night affair.  Steve had gotten really spectacularly drunk and had called uncle when Natasha’s King Dedede had annihilated his Samus without taking any damage (mostly because Steve had wasted two lives by walking right off the ledge of the level).

They had all ended up stumbling off to bed at around four in the morning.  Bruce was already groaning about his undeniable hangover, Clint and Natasha giggled all the way to Clint’s room, Thor, having drunk too much of his own liquor was singing “Jingle Bell Rock” under his breath, and Rhodey, trudging off to the room reserved for him when he visited, was cursing Tony for killing him in Smash one too many times.  Steve and Tony were left in the living room, the fire the only light left in the room.  Tony was, inexplicably, trying to clean up some of the mess left from the party.  Steve had attempted to help, which had led to them banging into each other and laughing and then...

Steve tried to shake himself out of the memory, but the sound of Tony’s laughter and his breath on Steve’s neck was so strong he could physically feel it.  He took another swig of the scotch, hoping it would drown out the memory with a different kind of heat, but then, the scotch was Tony’s. Unwillingly, he was sucked back into the memory of Tony’s hands locking around the collar of his pressed shirt and him whispering, half-slurred,

“Where did you get this shirt?  Old Navy?”

Steve laughed, he could smell Tony’s cologne and gingerly reached out to touch the silk of his embroidered vest, having shed his suitcoat hours before.

“Not everyone can afford a two-thousand dollar suit, Tony,” Steve whispered, his hands grazing Tony’s own collar and the flushed skin of his neck.

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with Old Navy, I was gonna say you should wear these shirts more often,” Tony said leaning in to Steve, so they were almost nose to nose.

Steve remembered the way his breath had become erratic, matching his heart and Tony stretched up to kiss the shell of his ear.

“Tony,” he had whispered, half drunk on the alcohol and half drunk on the moment, on Tony himself.  

“I’ll stop if you want me to,” said Tony, looking at Steve with seriousness written on his face.

“I-” Steve had wanted to unequivocally say yes, stop, we shouldn’t be doing this, but he didn’t mean it.  So, instead of talking, he leaned down and kissed Tony.  It was perfect, exactly what it should have been.  Steve could taste the scotch on Tony’s tongue, and Tony’s fingers began to fiddle with the buttons on Steve’s shirt, and he began to pull him towards his own room-

Steve wrenched himself out of the memory, looking up at the too bright lights in the barracks, pretending that the sting of the lights were what was causing his eyes to water.  Tony wasn’t there, even though he could feel his skittering touches lingering on his skin.  Tony wasn’t there, even though he could taste Tony’s tongue in his mouth.  Tony wasn’t there, because Tony had saved the Universe, and Steve was alone.  Achingly, horribly alone, with nothing but a half-empty bottle of scotch and the promise of a hangover in the morning.

Instead of pushing the memories of Tony down, he let them come, memory after memory of fights, kisses, anger, laughter, and everything in between.  The tears came more readily now, like a pool that had sprung a leak, a steady stream down his face.  He hunched against the pain, clutching the bottle in his hands and cried until his head hurt and his eyes were red and puffy.  Natasha had told him that crying was a good form of healing.  Between the drinking and the crying, he was taking all the dead’s advice right now.

Steve eventually set the bottle down on the ground and got up to turn off the lights.  His own unsteadiness was welcome, because it hopefully meant that he would sleep and wouldn’t dream of Tony.

Most nights since Tony died, his mind either gave him memories of sheer bliss, of Tony curled around him in the morning, of his beautiful hands curling around Steve’s arms, of his laugh, or it gave him the terrible moments, of anger, fighting, leaving each other bloody and angry and filled with resentment.  Steve didn’t know which was worse.

He lay in the military-style bunk in the barracks, listening to his own breathing, and, as he drifted off in a whisky-hazed sleep, he swore he could hear Tony’s voice, his ragged breathing in Steve’s ear, his moaning low and vibrant in expensive silk sheets that cost more than Steve’s entire wardrobe.  Steve felt like he was paralyzed, like he was trapped in a different universe, one where Thanos had never come to call, and he and Tony could spend their entire lives in Tony’s bed, looking out across the city they both loved so much, holding each other as the lights of New York twinkled like the most beautiful stars in the universe.

Steve didn’t like to drink, but if drinking gave him these knife-sharp memories, he was willing to keep a bottle of Tony’s favorite scotch handy for the bad nights.

**Author's Note:**

> I am so EMO over Steve and Tony guys I really can't get over it. So it's simultaneously a sad endgame fic and a fluffy 2012 fic I guess lol.


End file.
